


empty ribcage, broken heart

by jaybirddraws (simplestorange)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Introspection, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Sort Of, amaurotine!wol, how to not deal with your trauma: a guide by emet-selch, lowkey?, so many headcanons, we are IGNORING canon lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24611212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplestorange/pseuds/jaybirddraws
Summary: “Are you mad?” A’chago taunts. “Are you mad that I killed your friends? Lahabrea, Igoryehm? Nabriales? One wrong move, and I’ll killyou, too.”Emet-Selch is on him in an instant. He grasps A’chago by the front of his tabard, shoves him against the tree. “You have donefarworse than that, youfilthy murderer,” Emet-Selch hisses.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	empty ribcage, broken heart

**Author's Note:**

> im back from the dead! FFXIV is my all-time favorite game, and I've been playing for like four years now. A'chago Tia is actually my second character! if you play, i'm on cactuar :)  
> This is sooooooo self-indulgent. As much as I'm a fan of the whole "oh, the 14th is emet-selch's friend/lover/sworn enemy", none of those felt like they really fit A'chago. thus, here we are!  
> i hope you all enjoy, and if you're thinking of playing the game, PLEASE DO ITS SO GOOD

Emet-Selch is watching him again. He can feel the Ascian’s eyes roaming over his body, like A’chago is a puzzle that Emet-Selch just can’t quite figure out. It unnerves him. Deeply.

“I know you’re there,” A’chago grunts. “You’re not as quiet as you think you are.”

Emet-Selch walks into eyesight. He sizes A’chago up, then smiles in a fake, simpering way. “And what, pray tell, makes you think it was not my _intention_ to be caught?”

A’chago grits his teeth. He’s not in the mood for Emet-Selch’s games. Tomorrow, they will regroup at the Crystarium and discuss the Lightwardens of Amh Araeng and Kholusia. Yesterday, they watched with bated breath as Emet-Selch plucked Y’shtola from the lifestream with ease. Today, he’s just tired. “Just because you saved Y’shtola doesn’t mean I trust you. As far as I’m concerned, all Ascians are dirty, conniving little shits.”

The Ascian in front of him bristles. It’s gratifying to finally be able to get under Emet-Selch’s skin.

“Are you mad?” A’chago taunts. “Are you mad that I killed your friends? Lahabrea, Igoryehm? Nabriales? One wrong move, and I’ll kill _you_ , too.”

Emet-Selch is on him in an instant. He grasps A’chago by the front of his tabard, shoves him against the tree. “You have done _far_ worse than that, you _filthy murderer_ ,” Emet-Selch hisses.

A’chago grins. “Pot, kettle,” he says easily. His feet barely brush the ground. Emet-Selch glares harder.

“You were the greatest mistake I have ever made,” he says, venom dripping from his voice. “And you don’t even _remember_ it.” He shoves A’chago back harder so that the bark scrapes his bare skin.

Unbidden, a memory pops into A’chago’s head. A dream he had as a child, a name on the tip of his tongue…“Who are you talking about?” A’chago asks innocently. “Eleos?”

Emet-Selch doesn’t react the way A’chago expects. Rather, he narrows his eyes and searches his face, looking for something that he obviously isn’t finding. “This is a waste of time,” he decides, and unceremoniously drops A’chago in the dirt. As he leaves, he tells A’chago over his shoulder, “See to it that that name never crosses your lips again.” Then he disappears into a puff of black miasma.

* * *

Ryne wants to summon the Oracle. Thancred wants to run from his problems. A’chago wants answers. He didn’t expect Emet-Selch to respond at all to the name he conjured up, but now that he has, the desire to know more burns. He’s been waiting for the Ascian to show his face for days, but Emet-Selch has stubbornly remained hidden in the shadows.

A’chago excuses himself from the rest of the Scions at Twine, and finds a secluded place on the lip of the nearby gorge. He can’t track down Emet-Selch, but he does have a friend who rarely leaves his side. “Ardbert?” He calls.

It takes a moment, but his ghostly companion manifests beside him. “Hello,” he greets. “Something tells me this isn’t a social call.”

A’chago smiles. “Sorry, nope. Does the name ‘Eleos’ mean anything to you?”

Ardbert blanches.

“Ardbert?”

“Sorry,” Ardbert apologizes. “You caught me off guard. When I was a child, I had an imaginary friend named Eleos. I don’t know where the name came from, it just seemed to fit. Why do you ask?”

A’chago hums, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Someone called me that in a dream,” he says. “I asked Emet-Selch about it and he got pissed. Makes me wonder if it means anything, especially since we both have a connection to it.”

“Maybe it’s a Warrior of Light thing?” Ardbert suggests. “Although none of my friends had any stories. Then again, I never asked. I didn’t even know it was important.”

“I’m not so sure it is,” A’chago admits. “I’m just curious.”

Ardbert crosses his arms. “Learn something new everyday,” he mutters. “Well, I hope you figure it out. If you’ll excuse me, I have more ghost things to attend to. Lots of haunting, moaning, wailing...you know the drill.”

“Twelve. You better get to it,” A’chago chuckles. “Thanks, Ardbert.”

* * *

When A’chago next sees Emet-Selch alone, it’s while he’s hunting island rails for dinner in Kholusia. The Ascian pops into existence unexpectedly, right in A’chago’s peripheral as he’s swinging his greatsword. It throws him off guard. He misses. The bird takes the chance to scurry away, and A’chago curses.

“Thanks,” he calls out. “Thank you for that.”

Emet-Selch doesn’t indulge him with an answer. Instead, he looks at A’chago like he’d rather be anywhere else than in his presence. _You approached me_ , A’chago thinks.

He shifts his weight to one foot as he rotates his aching feet. The everlasting light is hot, he’s exhausted, and Emet-Selch hasn’t yet announced the reason for his visit. He’s just _staring_ , no words, not even blinking.

“Are you going to-”

“None save those who escaped unsundered have any memory of their true lives,” Emet-Selch interrupts. “Myself, Lahabrea, and Elidibus. Us three are the sole inheritors of the truth.”

A’chago bristles. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck. “You’ve already explained this,” he points out. “Back in the Ocular. Did a demonstration and everything.”

Emet-Selch watches him carefully. “So, _why_ ,” and oh, his voice is kind of scary, now, “do you remember your _name?_ ”

His name. Eleos is his name. Or, his Ascian name. His original name? Either way, this is a better breakthrough than anything A’chago could’ve hoped for. “Aha!” he says smugly. “Eleos _does_ mean something to you. Who was he? A friend? A _lover?_ ”

“Oh, your ego would like that, wouldn’t it?” Emet-Selch sneers. He looks utterly disgusted. “No. We were not lovers. And if you can’t remember more than a name, then I will certainly not be rewarding you with the truth of your nature.”

The unfairness of it all makes A’chago’s tail lash. Emet-Selch would deny him his own memories? “It’s _my_ history. _My_ name,” he says petulantly.

“It is _not!_ ” Emet-Selch roars suddenly, advancing on A’chago until he towers over him. “ _You_ are but a mockery of who he was! A shattered, feeble _husk_ of an echo. You are so far removed from he that to claim otherwise would be to claim that the book is still the tree simply because both are made of wood.”

“That doesn’t even make _sense!_ ” A’chago argues. “If every Ascian was split across ten and four, and there are thirteen reflections of one Source, then I, a man of the Source, seven times rejoined, am the closest you will _ever_ get to him, and I want to know who I was!”

“You think me ignorant? You think I haven’t agonized over that ever since discovering who’s soul you’ve appropriated? _What do you think the purpose of the Rejoining is!?_ ” Emet-Selch stops, takes a breath, recollects himself. “If you truly wish to know,” he says, “then you will prove yourself capable of being my equal. You will defeat the Lightwardens, absorb their aether, and _contain_ it. Then, and _only_ then, will I reveal to you the truth.”

A’chago grins. “Then you better be prepared to answer all of my questions, because I’m going to succeed.”

Emet-Selch, who had been starting to walk away, stops to look back at him oddly. “Sure,” he says, then disappears into one of his black portals.

A’chago stares at the place where Emet-Selch disappeared. _That was a success_ , he smiles to himself.

* * *

A’chago has no idea if he’s going to succeed. Since Storge, he’s been having pains often, and his vision keeps going white at random. He has to succeed, though. For the Exarch. For the people of the First. For himself.

Of course, none of that matters until they find a way to reach Mt. Gulg. Even with the people of Eulmore liberated and the old way of life abolished, there is little and less that a bunch of skilless rich fools could offer that would help their current predicament.

“...Talos? Did someone say Talos!? You know all about them, don’t you, dearest! If anyone can get this lift moving, it’s you!”

A’chago stands corrected.

* * *

The Scions don’t let him help. Urianger and Y’shtola all but force him to sit and watch while the rest of the city gets to work. He hates it, this idleness, and he wishes he could at least fetch water or haul stone or _something_.

Instead, he’d been told in no uncertain terms that he was not to lift a finger. A’chago settles himself atop a crate in the shade and tries not to look condescending. He always feels bad when he doesn’t contribute.

Emet-Selch takes this ample amount of free time to appear. He shambles up the stone walkway like a zombie, like it takes a considerable amount of effort to put one foot in front of the other. When he comes to a stop beside A’chago, it’s only to soliloquize about imperialism. A’chago ignores him. Then, Emet-Selch reminisces about the past-his past, the Ascian past. “It fair brings a tear to the eye,” he says dramatically.

“Didn’t know you could do that,” A’chago grunts. He only half-means it as a jab. The only other ancient beings he knows are the pixies and none of them are particularly emotional.

Emet-Selch shoots him a deadly glare. “What? You thought ancient beings like us incapable of crying? Well, rest assured that if your heart can be broken, then so can mine!”

A’chago is taken aback. It’s a surprisingly vulnerable admission wrapped up in a scathing accusation. He almost feels bad for Emet-Selch...but then the rational part of his brain reminds him that no amount of grief excuses the sheer amount of death that the Ascians have wrought.

“You’d think that one so intimately acquainted with grief would be less eager to submit others to the same misery,” A’chago notes. He’s not really thinking when he says it, just theorizing.  
Emet-Selch doesn’t take kindly to it. “Your grief is nothing compared to the eons of despair my people have suffered,” he hisses.

“For Gods’ sake, this isn’t a pissing contest of who can be the most sad,” A’chago starts, but Emet-Selch talks over him. He tells A’chago briefly about how the Ascians used to have families, friends, loves...tells him about a city called Amaurot, then condemns him for not remembering.

“I’m sure Eleos remembers,” A’chago says cooly. “Maybe you should tell me about him. Maybe it’ll awaken something.”

Emet-Selch, to his credit, doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he interrogates A’chago about the Exarch. When A’chago doesn’t give a satisfactory answer, he leaves.

A’chago thinks he’s more exhausted than before he was told to rest.

* * *

The next time A’chago sees Emet-Selch is when he shoots G’raha Tia in the back. A’chago clings to his body, tries to use his own to put distance between G’raha and Emet-Selch, _refusing_ to let anything take G’raha away from him again, but it’s a waste of energy. Emet-Selch snatches G’raha away ( _“A token”, he said_ ) and disappears to someplace called the Tempest.

* * *

In the depths of the ocean is a recreation of what A’chago can only assume was Amaurot in the apex of its glory. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before. He hopes to feel some sense of recognition, some hint that Eleos is stirring, but he doesn’t. It’s simply foreign. There’s nothing familiar about it.

He doesn’t expect the Amaurotines to be so _massive_. They tower over even Urianger, who only comes up to about their knee.

In the end, it’s not Emet-Selch who tells him about Eleos. It’s an Amaurotine named Hythlodaeus.

“He doesn’t want to acknowledge that it’s you,” Hythlodaeus says to him. “Emet-Selch always loved too hard, gave too much of himself away. Eleos was his only child.”

The world seems to fade away around A’chago. _Son_ , he repeats in his head. _Eleos is Emet-Selch’s son_. “Tell me more,” he begs.

Hythlodaeus pauses, but like any simulacrum here, even self-aware as he is, he cannot help but interact with A’chago. He was designed to. “...Eleos was Emet-Selch’s pride and joy. Emet-Selch adored him. He was a troublemaker, certainly, but clever, too. He was selfless and stubborn, just like his father. He was an errand runner for the Convocation in his youth. When he grew up, he…” At this, Hythlodaeus’s image shudders. “I apologize. I cannot continue. It is not for me to say.”

As much as A’chago burns for more knowledge, he doesn’t press the issue. “Thank you,” he says instead. His head is spinning. He looks at Ardbert. Ardbert looks just as stunned. _We’re pieces of Eleos,_ A’chago thinks. He’s not sure how that makes him feel. Eleos was real. A real person. He lived here. Probably had friends of his own, too.

A’chago elects to keep this information private from the Scions. They don’t need to know, and he needs to save G’raha.

* * *

In the ruins of Amaurot, with the sun rising and the skeleton of the city crumbling to dust, A’chago faces Hades. Hades has a hole going through his stomach. Visible on the other side is Ardbert’s axe. A’chago feels like the breeze might blow him over.

Hades takes one look at A’chago and then says without preamble, “You know.”

A’chago nods.

“Sometimes you look just like him,” Hades says. He looks to the ground. When he meets A’chago’s eyes again, he’s resolved. “Remember us. Remember that we once lived.”

“I will,” A’chago promises. He doesn’t know Eleos, doesn’t know Hades, doesn’t know their family and how he, 8/14ths of a ghost fits into it, but he knows grief. He knows pain. He knows how a father mourns for his child. He can only hope that he conveys this through his words.

For the first time in perhaps millenia, Hades smiles. And then he’s gone.

Something deep within A’chago’s soul settles. He’s not sure if it’s him or Ardbert or Eleos, but he knows now that it doesn’t matter. They’re all _him_ , just like he’s part of _them_. And he, just as himself, has always been enough.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on [tumblr](https://jaybirddraws.tumblr.com/)


End file.
